There was a rose in Eden once: it grows On Earth now, sweeter for its rare perfume: And Paradise is poorer by one bloom, And Earth is richer. In this blossom glows More loveliness than old seraglios Or courts of kings did ever yet illume: More purity, than ever yet had room In soul of nun or saint.--O human rose,-- Who art initial and sweet period of My heart's divinest sentence, where I read Love, first and last, and in the pauses love; Who art the dear ideal of each deed My life aspires by to some high goal,-- Set in the haunted garden of my soul! The Artist In story books, when I was very young, I knew you first, one of the Fairy Race; And then it was your picture took its place, Framed in with love's deep gold, and draped and hung High in my heart's red room: no song was sung, No tale of passion told, I did not grace With your associated form and face, And intimated charm of touch and tongue. As years went on you grew to more and more, Until each thing, symbolic to my heart Of beauty,--such as honor, truth, and fame,-- Within the studio of my soul's thought wore Your lineaments, whom I, with all my art, Strove to embody and to give a name. Poetry and Philosophy Out of the past the dim leaves spoke to me The thoughts of Pindar with a voice so sweet Hyblæan bees seemed swarming my retreat Around the reedy well of Poesy. I closed the book. Then, knee to neighbor knee, Sat with the soul of Plato, to repeat Doctrines, till mine seemed some Socratic seat High on the summit of Philosophy. Around the wave of one Religion taught Her first rude children. From the stars that burned Above the mountained other, Science learned The first vague lessons of the work she wrought. Daughters of God, in whom we still behold The Age of Iron and the Age of Gold. "Quo Vadis" It is as if imperial trumpets broke Again the silence on War's iron height; And Cæsar's armored legions marched to fight, While Rome, blood-red upon her mountain-yoke, Blazed like an awful sunset. At a stroke, Again I see the living torches light The horrible revels, and the bloated, white, Bayed brow of Nero smiling through the smoke: And here and there a little band of slaves Among dark ruins; and the form of Paul, Bearded and gaunt, expounding still the Word: And towards the North the tottering architraves Of empire; and, wild-waving over all, The flaming figure of a Gothic sword. To a Critic